"Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons———" And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology.
"I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went on.
"You will please to do nothing of the kind. You will keep it to cover your poor old legs."
"Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they are as good as yours."
"Oh, you are perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving him his tea.
"Well, we are two lame ducks; I don't think there is much difference."
"I am much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How is your tea?"
"Well, it's rather hot."
"That's intended to be a merit."
"Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly. "He's a very good nurse, Lord Warburton."
"Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship.
"Oh no, he's not clumsy—considering that he's an invalid himself. He's a very good nurse—for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he's sick himself."
"Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed.
"Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it."
"I might try: that's an idea," said the young man.
"Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked.
Lord Warburton considered a moment.
"Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf."
"He is making light of you, daddy," said the other young man. "That's a sort of joke."
